


A Perfect Fit

by abbacchihoe



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Universe, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Shopping Malls, pynch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15571482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbacchihoe/pseuds/abbacchihoe
Summary: Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish had been a hair’s breadth away from losing their virginities to one another.Or, Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish would have lost their virginities to one another if not for the single, revelatory rrrrripppp that seemed to reverberate all around Henrietta, that in turn “killed the mood,” as Henry Cheng would say occasionally enough to be considered annoying.Or, the one where Ronan rips Adam's signature Coco-Cola T-shirt, and embarks to buy him a new one.





	A Perfect Fit

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing the raven cycle & pynch so be nice please! i've been enamored with this series & its characters for the past year & I've always wanted to write fanfiction, i just never had any ideas until recently! needless to say, expect a lot more raven cycle fanfic (most particularly pynch bc uhh otp) from me in the near future!

Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish had been a hair’s breadth away from losing their virginities to one another.

Or, Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish would have lost their virginities to one another if not for the single, revelatory _rrrrripppp_ that seemed to reverberate all around Henrietta, that in turn “killed the mood,” as Henry Cheng would say occasionally enough to be considered annoying.

The single, revelatory _rrrrripppp_ in question had been consequential of Adam’s well-worn Coca-Cola T-shirt quite literally tearing into two, and _that_ had been consequential of Ronan’s well-toned arms hastily, _hungrily,_ tugging it off his chestnut head. In his haste to have Adam inside of him, or vice versa, Ronan had forgotten exactly how strong was, how it intensified hundredfold as his passion did, and in this case, the source of his passion concerned a certain cerulean-eyed boyfriend.

 _Boyfriend._ The two had been using the label for months, and to this day the noun _still_ felt foreign on Ronan’s tongue, and he suspected that it always would. But no matter—Ronan had never cared much for labels, anyway; according to him, “boyfriend,” and other such denominations were strictly unnecessary, because Adam was something much, much more than that, something for which there was no name. Not that they even referred to one another as such that often, of course—they rarely ever acknowledged what they were, reserving it solely for their makeout sessions, and even then, it would be minutes—or, on several occasions, hours—before either of them did so.

In fact, they had been in the midst of one when Adam’s Coca-Cola T-shirt met its fate, and when it did, it was as though Adam himself had likewise expired. When Ronan had told him so, Adam had simply shrugged, soundlessly assuring him that it was no biggie, to which Ronan replied that it was quite possibly the biggest biggie in the entire history of biggies, if ever there was one. Adam laughed heartily at this, clutching his stomach as it ached with the effort, and then observed that his shirt’s untimely end had been long overdue, anyway.

Even if it was, the shirt had basically been Adam’s second skin. Sure, it was threadbare, but that was only because it was the most frequently worn piece of clothing Adam owned, and isn’t the most often worn article of clothing almost always the most beloved?

Ronan would’ve dreamt him up a new one at once, had he not been so aggravatingly limited to bringing animals, beasts, and perilous items from his dreams. It’s not like he didn’t at least try; he did, unremittingly. But alas, each time he succumbed to slumber, he emerged from it with essentially everything—an uncommon six-leaf clover, a male raven that appeared promising for Chainsaw (more importantly, could dream ravens even reproduce?), even a levitating toiler plunger at one point, peculiarly—but a replica of Adam’s Coco-Cola T-shirt. Upsettingly, he supposed that a Coco-Cola T-shirt would never again adorn Adam’s torso—until one day, Blue and Gansey suggested he go to the mall and _buy_ one, as though he were as mundane as a sack of potatoes, or his brothers, which, come to think of it, couldn’t be more alike.

When Ronan had confided the circumstances under which the T-shirt had been torn asunder to Blue and Gansey, he feared that the former would feel uncomfortable, envious, even, at the thought of her sort-of-ex-boyfriend almost bump uglies with his definitely-boyfriend. But she had reacted no differently than if Ronan had confided tomorrow’s weather to her. Besides, he had been foolish to assume she would be resentful—Gansey was her true love, for fuck’s sake; the fact that the pair’s hands had been interwoven the whole time he was at 300 Fox Way that afternoon reminded him so.

She _had_ been uncomfortable, however—as did Ronan and Gansey—when Maura Sargent burst in the bedroom, a plate piled high with cookies balanced in both arms. She had just as instantly insisted to not have heard a peep when she at the sight of the three’s flushed faces. Ronan was no physic, but even he knew that had been a lie.

The plateful of cookies had very nearly toppled to the floor when Ronan pushed past Maura, sprinting out the houseful of psychics and towards his father’s BMW, bringing the engine to life quicker than he ever had before.

“What’s got him in such a hurry?” Maura inquired of the two as he sped away, a cloud of dust billowing in his wake.

“Diarrhea,” Blurted Gansey; he was uncertain as to whether his girlfriend’s mother approved of the whole homosexuality thing; very few in Henrietta did, after all.

Presently, Ronan was pondering whether having diarrhea—or being afflicted with anything else that was unpleasant, really—would be preferable to meandering the labyrinthine mall the next town over and having his heel accidentally—or purposefully, who knew—stepped upon more times than he could possibly calculate. Having Opal beside him, her paper-pale fingers laced with his, helped, but only marginally; he felt as confined as he had been inside his mother’s womb (not that he recalled being in there, but anyway), on account of the hundreds of Virginians encircling him interminably.

 _The mall’s 150,000 square feet,_ Ronan thought on more than one occasion. _Would it kill any of you to spread out at least a_ little?

Opal, having sensed his exasperation, tried on various outfits, each one more irregular than the last, and all of which obscured her hooves, mercifully. Her fashion show didn’t cease until Ronan was uncharacteristically roaring with laughter not long after she kicked open the door of her changing room donning an outfit so ridiculous it made Blue’s outfits appear ordinary. It was comprised of this: a slim-fitting skirt in a shade of neon green so scintillating it hurt to look at, a too-large pink blazer that clashed comically with the former, and atop her flaxen head, a cowboy hat in the same too-bright shade of neon green as the skirt. It was by no means the inanest outfit ever assembled, but it was certainly inane enough to succeed in eliminating Ronan’s irritation, if only for the moment.

Moods brightened, Ronan and Opal (who was now sporting her usual white fisherman’s sweater and rubber boots, respectfully) emerged from the changing area; they had taken no more than ten steps when they espied it: A Coco-Cola T-shirt that was not only in pristine condition, but a carbon copy of Adam’s, as well. It was the only one in the store that had yet to be purchased, and so Ronan had yanked it from his hanger, carefully so as to not tear this one, too.

T-shirt slung over his left shoulder, and Opal sashaying alongside him, the two marched towards the cashiers, but partway there, Ronan stopped in his tracks, for the only cashier on duty was none other than his boyfriend; in his haste to purchase him a new Coco-Cola shirt, one that hadn’t been torn in two, it had failed to occur to Ronan that Adam’s new job was that of a cashier, at the exact store he was currently occupying.

Seeing as how he was frozen in place, no stiller than a statue, Opal seized Ronan’s hand once more and pulled him forward, forward, forward, until finally they were standing before Adam, the only thing between them the milk-white counter.

Opal plucked the T-shirt from Ronan’s shoulder and placed it upon the counter; Adam picked it up and scanned it; a single, soft beep resonated throughout the even quieter store. It was almost laughable how minutes ago, Ronan couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into someone, and now, when he needed to be surrounded by strangers more than ever, the mall’s other occupants were anywhere but. What was also laughable was how just as many minutes ago, he had wanted nothing more than to be alone, if only somewhat, and now that he _was_ somewhat alone, he would’ve done anything to be _anything_ but.

“Hi, Adam!” Greeted Opal.

“Hey, Opal,” Then, to Ronan: “This for a friend of yours?”

No response. Adam’s smirk stretched ever further.

“A girlfriend, perhaps?”

Ronan’s lips remained closed, his gaze fixed on the tile floor; it irked—and astonished—him to no end how he would almost always become another person entirely while in Adam’s presence: one who was as timid as Henrietta was supernatural.

“A boyfriend?” By now Adam’s smirk was as wide as his fine-boned face would allow. “Not that that’s a bad thing, of course. Love is love, right?”

At last Ronan allowed their irises, both of them blue, to align. Adam didn’t break their gaze, not even as he slipped the T-shirt and receipt into an opaque plastic bag, handing it to Ronan just as swiftly.

“Right,” Managed Ronan as he snatched the bag from him, peering inside it to ascertain the shirt was in there, although he had just seen Adam stuff it inside as gingerly as one would lower an infant into its cradle. In truth, he wanted to look at anything but Adam’s cocksure smile; he would’ve looked at a piece of shit on the floor, flies swarming amongst it and all, had there been one.

“Have a good day, sir,” Said Adam. Then: “I hope your boyfriend likes it.”

“Likewise.” Muttered Ronan as he turned on his heel and practically speedwalked towards the exit, Opal trailing behind, but not before she bade farewell to Adam first; it wasn’t until Ronan stormed back towards Adam that she realized doing so had been pointless.

Face to face with Adam once more, Ronan withdrew the T-shirt from its bag and shoved it Adam. “Put it on, Parrish.” He tried to sound, to _appear,_ as apathetic as possible, but his upper lip had curled of its own accord.

Adam gestured at his work uniform: khakis that were one size away from being skintight, a bloodred polo, through which Ronan could descry his nipples, and knockoff loafers. “I doubt you’ve ever had to work for a living before, Mister Moneybags, but us working poor gotta wear these things called ‘uniforms’ while we work.”

“I don’t see a manager anywhere,” Ronan remarked.

“He could appear at any time…” Adam singsonged.

Opal’s gaze flitted between the two of them, as if watching a match of tennis.

“If I know anything about managers, it’s that yours is most likely in the break room right now, having some chick blow him. Trust me, he won’t be appearing anytime soon.”

“You win this round, Lynch,” Adam sighed before he at last accepted the T-shirt from Ronan and pulled it over his dusty brown head, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there. Much to Ronan’s disappointment, his nipples were no longer visible through the fabric, although his nametag was. “Does it fit okay?”

The change in the atmosphere was practically perceptible: Ronan’s eyes unnarrowed, his lips widened into a full smile; realizing that his boss would not indeed be appearing anytime soon, Adam’s chest rose and fell as he relaxed.

“It’s a perfect fit, if ever there was one,” Ronan murmured before he leaned over the counter and bunched his fingers in the T-shirt’s fabric, tugging Adam towards him and placing a searing, senseless kiss upon his lips. Beside him, Opal squealed with delight.

Here was another thing that fit perfectly: their mouths.

Adam pulled away to say, “You can’t just up and kiss an employee like that, it’s sexual harassment,” before kissing him once more.

“I don’t see you complaining,” Said Ronan as Adam’s fingernails scraped at his shaved scalp, as they descended little by little until finally settling on his hips; they would’ve descended even lower if Opal wasn’t there. Also, if they weren’t in a mall. Also, if Adam’s manager hadn’t appeared out of nowhere and boomed, “Get back to work, Parrish.”

Ronan and Adam pulled apart, their faces as crimson as the Coco-Cola T-shirt. “Yes, Mr. Bierman.”

“And take that damn shirt off.”

“Yes, sir.” Off went the shirt.

Ronan accepted the everted T-shirt and wedged it back inside the bag.

“You better not rip this one,” Said Adam before he could leave.

Ronan’s lips curled once more. “You should know by now, Parrish, that I make no promises.”

But, not even a month afterwards, Ronan had ripped that one, too; they had lost their virginities to one another regardless. But no matter—he had bought Adam another one.

Ronan never said so, but Adam knew that as long as he was his, he would buy him all the Coco-Cola T-shirts the world had to offer.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback isn't mandatory, although it is appreciated :)


End file.
